


Both Feet First

by Britpacker



Series: Leaps Of Faith [2]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: When a Reed decides to do something, half-measures are right off the agenda.  Malcolm’s a chip off the old block in that if nothing else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Not mine, no beta, etc, etc, etc, set a few weeks after the events of "Leap Before You Look".

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks after their shore-leave took its turn for the better, Malcolm enjoys an unexpected evening with his lover.

I'm dead tired. It's too great an effort to lift my feet as I stumble off the turbolift at B Deck, and I can hear the scrape of my soles against the deck plating. If my back wasn't killing me I'd straighten up and force myself to march like an officer instead of shuffling like a reluctant schoolboy on a Monday morning, but I can't be arsed with keeping up appearances just now. I may not be the biggest bruiser in Security, but all the same: who designed those cannon housings? Snow White, for one of her seven sodding dwarves?

Just call me Grumpy. It wouldn't be the first time.

Especially since the forward port cannon's repeated threats to fire straight through the bulkhead at the next piece of space-junk to pass within half a light year forced me to comm. Trip in front of the whole armoury team and cancel our dinner date tonight.

All right, I didn't call it a date; neither did he, though I've never heard a casual friend sound so disappointed at having a quick catch-up cancelled. "You need a hand down there, Lieutenant?" was a good recovery, but the rumours have been flying for the last week. 

If I wasn't so knackered, I might still be bothered about that. I don't much care for being a topic of whispered conversation.

Usually. 

Which is why, you bloody fraud, you almost exploded with glee when he started fondling your knee while sharing a table with Fisher and Janes in the melee at lunch yesterday.

It's not exhaustion that makes me giddy as I stagger against my own front door. It's pride. Commander Tucker can't keep his lovely big hands off me, and that alone makes life worth living.

I must be beyond tired to start spouting that kind of drivel, even in the privacy of my own head, but never mind. The past couple of weeks have been incredible - mind-blowing - but I'm the Armoury Officer, for pity's sake. The personification of self-control.

Trip would laugh his balls off having heard me scream under the combined assault of his hands and mouth last night. I wish it weren't too late to sneak down the corridor and crawl into bed beside him! I _hate_ waking up alone these days.

I'll be waking in a heap in the hall if I don't pull my finger out. My eyelids are drooping; my legs feel spongy and unresponsive. I'm glad I don't have to try and remember my key code - my poor brain's gone offline. Bloody phase cannons. Sometimes think we should just dismantle the temperamental little bastards.

Bloody hell. It's not rest I need - it's my head examining.

And possibly my eyesight. As the door slides open I'm fairly sure I must be hallucinating.

"Hey, darlin'." 

He unfolds himself from my desk chair and takes a forward step, arms already extended, and it's as if he's magnetised. I'm just drawn across the threshold without feeling the deck beneath my feet. He's golden; surrounded by an eerie glow. It takes my sluggish brain a moment too long to work out why. 

"Like an angel," I hear myself say.

His forehead furrows. "Huh?"

"Sorry." I have to stretch up, kiss those hateful creases away before muddling through an explanation. "What you've done with the lights - they're shining off your hair like a halo."

"Grandma Johnson used to say you'd find that 'round my ankles." He's chuckling; I can feel the chest I'm sagged against vibrate. "I figured the usual setting might be a tad harsh after a whole day stuck in the cannon housing, but I can reset if you want."

That's what makes Charles Tucker III so utterly unique; he makes one feel one's actually worthy of all that heavenly consideration. "No, it's lovely," I promise, not that I can see it with my face pushed into the side of his delicious neck. Two strong arms encircle me, holding me up. I could stay like this all night.

Gentle fingers lift my chin. I've just got time identify his lips, full, pink and slightly parted, descending my way before they claim mine and I just... liquefy.

He's manipulating my body. I'm vaguely aware of motion, though with his tongue stuck down my throat I'm in no position to ask where we're going even if I could form a coherent sentence. 

Oh, good. Now I'm trapped between Trip's gorgeous body and the wall, so I needn't worry about my achy muscles giving way: can simply squeeze my little remaining strength into kissing him silly. His hands run down my shoulders, slide between us to rub soothing patterns over my chest... I'm nude to the waist before I realise what he's planning.

And when he drops to his knees, dragging my grimy uniform down to puddle around my feet... oh, God!

Of all the wonders he's shown me in recent weeks, this is the greatest. My penis is immersed in warm, wet satin, a cavern more flexible and more glorious than any woman's secret orifice. The throbbing pain in my back dissolves with the bone that's supposed to keep my face off the floor. Strength and awareness are followng the birdies to their winter home and I can only grab his bobbing head, desperately warning myself not to thrust before he's ready, the muscles of his throat rippling around me like the softened leather of a favourite glove. I'm in heaven.

He hums against my swollen cock, tongue corkscrewing up and down between deep, noisy sucks that pulse pleasure right down to my toes. They curl into the soft inserts of my boots, the slight tension sparking through background bliss as a small, near-painful pleasure point. I'm grunting like a pig and now he's getting into it I don't even try to hold back. He kneads my buttocks like a cat on a cushion and I'm so lost in my happy place the first cold splash between them barely registers. It's done before his intention penetrates my foggy brain, as piercing as the sensation of the finger that penetrates my virgin arsehole. 

I think I squeal but it's in surprise, not pain. The feeling is - intriguing.

I can feel every move he makes inside me. Each time he connects with another piece of virgin skin I quiver, and the unfortunate side-effect of pulling my penis off the back of his throat is compensated by the intensification of this strange new sensation. He's wiggling about deeper now and - ow!

That _did_ hurt.

I must tense up, or squeak, do or something else I'm oblivious to. Big blue eyes fly up to my face, panic surfacing from their smouldering depths. "'s okay,"I pant, and honestly, it is. The burning fades as fast as it began and I'm left feeling odd. Fuller inside. Stretchy. Really, rather wonderful. "Oh please, Trip. Please."

Always obliging he gets back to work, tongue and hands in perfect harmony, wringing a bloody symphony from my melting flesh. The entry of a third finger doesn't even sting: I want them deeper, I'm squatting like a crapping dog, and all the time his throat works my pulsing cock. I want to come, want to...

His finger touches something - somewhere - and fire streaks up my spine. Stars are bursting inside my head. Somebody's moaning his name. "Trip!"

He does it again. It's too much, too strong, I'm breaking apart, can't take this any more, oh God Trip please, please stop...

I come 'round in a heap on the floor, but I don't care. He's clutching me like a childhood teddy bear, snuffling endearments into my hair while rubbing his fingers along a cheekbone. 

Definitely a fetish. 

"Hey." He's realised I'm back. Strong hands slip down to cup my chin, making me meet his shining gaze. "Want something t' eat now? I brought some soup, but seeing you all tired an' drooping I kinda forgot about everything else..."

"You're so bloody sweet it's sickening." Still, my stomach growls at the mere thought of sustenance, which makes him laugh as we clamber into my bunk while simultaneously disposing of his civilian clothes. 

He waits until I've drained my mug of spiced lamb broth dry before asking the question I've watched dancing around the corners of his mouth for the last ten minutes. "Was that okay with you?"

I'm too much in love to tease. "More than okay," I say, and bones just about re-formed after pleasure dissolve all over again in awe at the relief that floods his perfect face. "In fact, if that's how good your fingers make me feel, anything more might just kill me."

"You're tougher than that, darlin'." His chuckle kisses my ear as we snuggle down, my head cushioned on his shoulder. 

I dare say he's right, and anyway, what's life without a little risk? I'll die a happy man if I can die with Trip Tucker's big, hard dick up my arse like a lollipop's wooden stick!


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip makes a request. Can Malcolm overcome his mistrust of himself enough to oblige?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is turning out to be quite... episodic. The events of this chapter follow a week or two after the first.

"C'mon, Commander, it wasn't _that_ bad!" Travis's broad smile flashes under the mess hall's strong lights. Trip must be dazzled by those amazing teeth: when he goes to punch our boomer's shoulder he misses by light years and, off-balance, staggers into me.

"Sorry, Lieutenant."

Eyebrows go up all round, and there's not a Vulcan in sight. So much for discretion! It's not natural to a Tucker but he's done his best and still... it couldn't have got round the ship faster if Phlox had caught us necking in the turbolift.

"It's quite all right." I leave a deliberate pause. Might as well give them some more amusement at our expense. "Sir. And anyway, you're right. That film was certifiable codswallop."

I'm not sure when I became the arbiter of good taste around here (possibly the first time they saw my kill ratios in target practice) but even Mr Mayweather doesn't care to dispute with me. "Well, I'm heading for bed," he announces, not without a significant look over his shoulder. "Some of us are on Alpha tomorrow."

"You want to talk to the First Officer if you're not happy with your shift patterns, Ensign," Trip suggests. That gets a laugh to cover our escape. 

"Enjoy your lie-in, guys."

That gets Hoshi a bigger one. Minx.

Well, all my childhood training's come in handy in ways the old fart could never have dreamed. I can pin on a smile and saunter into the corridor as if I don't hear them sniggering. They know we're spending the night together. They don't care.

If it's not their scrutiny making my stomach churn on the long walk back to B Deck, what is? 

It's Trip, of course. The sly smiles he's been giving me all evening, wordlessly reminding me of what's to come. A morning in bed. Together. We've been looking forward to it for weeks.

The instant we're inside his cabin the kissing starts. Mouths, hands, work frantically and somehow our clothes just - disappear. I can't stop rubbing that hard, hairy chest whenever we're like this, so different from all I used to know. The sensation of fine hairs against my palm is addictive, and the way his nipple hardens between my fingers... forget controlling 600 megajoule cannons. _This_ is real power.

He cups my chin, guiding me until I've no choice but to meet hooded azure eyes that burn black with desire. For me. "I need you, Malcolm," he growls, and I'm sure that voice bypasses my ears and is absorbed straight through my cock. I'm so lost in the wonder of his hands on my bare skin that his next words miss my brain - wherever it's currently residing - entirely. "Come inside me tonight, darlin'. I wanna feel you filling me so bad."

I wish they hadn't bounced back from the soles of my feet because panic clutches my gullet and melts my intestines into a puddle of icy water. It's rising into my lungs - I'm drowning in my own fear. "I - Trip, I can't!"

"Course you can." There's such compassion in his voice. I'm sure it's written all over his lovely face too but I'm too embarrassed to look up, and anyway the raw smell of his skin when I nuzzle into his marvellous chest calms me better than any of those disgusting camomile and lavender bags Mother used to drape around the house when Mad and I were little. "I know it seems weird to you but it's just like fucking a woman, only different."

I don't want to fuck him. I want to cherish him; ravish him. I'm not _completely_ ignorant - I knew what I was asking for when I suggested he might consider having me - but what if I hurt him? After all, I'm not, blowing my own trumpet I know, exactly short-changed in the trouser department.

"I don't know how..." I sound pathetic, but bless him: Trip just smiles, brushes his knuckles over my cheek and follows their path with his lips. 

"It's okay," he breathes, the intimacy of air fresh from his lungs against my skin a reassurance of itself. "I was scared too, my first time. I'll guide you all you need, just - jus' trust yourself, Malcolm."

It's one hell of an ask, and he knows it. "Or if you can't do that, trust me."

The lips that press mine are already parted in a knowing smile. "Touch me," he whispers, the words flowing like the finest single malt over my tongue. "Make me scream your name, Malcolm. You can do that, yeah?"

Oh yes, I can do that, and even thinking of it weakens my knees. Before I know it we're on the bed, hands, lips, even noses, working each other's tender spots. I'm on top, with Trip Tucker in all his honeyed glory beneath me, perspiration gleaming on his brow as he arches off the mattress, magnetically drawn to my touch. What did I ever do to deserve this honour? 

He grabs my hand, drawing each finger deep into his mouth. The flickering sensation of his tongue against my skin starts a reflective shimmer in my balls, and my cock could now be used to break rocks. Wasn't I supposed to be making him howl? At this rate I'll be off like a champagne cork before he gets close!

Oh.

You crafty bugger, Charles Tucker III. 

My fingers are all wet and slippery, circling the firm ring around his little hole and I can't pull them away, he has my wrist in a grip that's just the right side of painful. When I try to resist his thumb digs into the soft flesh on the inside, and oh yes, that hurts just right, a subtle burn that goes through to the bone and briefly diverts me from where my middle finger's going.

"Move it around me, darlin'." The walls of his rectum shiver under my convulsive touch. I'm feeling him from the inside, exploring parts of him nobody can see and he's squirming, trying to force me in deeper, faster than I dare to go. A hand shoots by my chin and when it comes back, he's clutching a long, thin white tube. "This'll help."

Lubricant. 

I'm really going to do this. Now I have one finger inside him every other extremity is beginning to throb with anticipation, but the hole's so small, the channel so tight, surely nothing bigger than a finger will fit through!

He drenches my whole hand for me, the sudden cold sending an electric charge into my palm. "Need more, darlin'," he rasps, and oh my, he's lovely when control starts slipping away! "'nother finger won't hurt. C'mon, you've gotta loosen up those muscles."

Is it cheating to cross my 'em, trying to minimise the surface area while two slide in together? He's so hot in there, the satiny skin so smooth against the backs of my fingers as they move, freed from my brain's command by his frantic bucking and squeezing around them. He gasps out a command " _stretch me!_ " and lo, I do as I'm told. Always the obedient subordinate, Malcolm.

Not here. Not now. And that was a plea, not an order. I can't resist.

Before I know it there's a third finger probing, and his vocal range widens by another two octaves when I find a spot he _really_ seems to like. His eyes roll and his head lolls against the pillow, and I really must do that again sometime.

"I'm ready." He's low and gravelly, thrumming off my skin. If _Sex_ could talk, that's what it would sound like, and every pulse point I have surges in primal recognition. Somehow he manages to sit up, slathering my swollen phallus with oil and laughing at my shaky moan before falling back, spread-eagled and utterly wanton. "Please, Malcolm. Come into me."

I'm still scared. Really, I am. It's just a strange, satisfying kind of terror now: that of a kiddie peeking at a horror film between his fingers, that illicit tingle of pleasured dread. I want this. I want it more than I ever imagined, but what if...

He doesn't have to use his hands; the look in his eyes is enough to bring me down between his legs and when they clamp around me, squeezing me tight, I think their pressure alone might make me come. I know that's his arsehole I'm butting, the full thickness of my engorged shaft up against that insignificant opening, and fear rises like a cold Atlantic swell. I can't do this!

Trip must sense my panic; we're so close he can probably feel the gooseflesh breaking out and silently he comes to my aid, gently guiding me until I feel the softened band of muscle flex and give, and something grips tight as an infant's fist around my cockhead. Trip emits that funny little humming sound I first heard with my mouth around his dick; the one that encouraged me to suck him in so deep I practically choked myself (but loved it anyway) and clamps me tighter between those big, hairy thighs. "That's it, baby," he growls, and don't I hate those nauseating pet names? "Just a little more - oh yeah. Right there."

Oh, yes. There.

His body ripples around me, squeezing sensation out of my penis and through my core. I want to focus on him, watch the wonder of what I'm doing to him darken his eyes and twist his face but it's all too much, the pressure of him around me, limbs locked, sweat and body hair and hot, silky skin. I'm a man, remember: I can't think and _do_ at the same time!

My lover whimpers. I understand on instinct and one hand pushes between us to grab his rock-hard cock. I can't hold back any longer, and as I pull that gorgeous thick staff I'm pumping my hips, deep and hard and fast, overwhelmed now by the feel of him all round me. His breath stops; his body goes rigid.

And he comes on a roar, liquid drenching my hand and our bellies, inner walls convulsing, pummelling me, dragging me with him into the vortex. I'm tumbling, explosions in every muscle, white lights flaring before my eyes, blurring the perfect vision of Trip's face twisted in ecstasy. It's all so good it hurts, the universe crashing down, crushing the life-force out of me until all I can do is succumb, melt into the heat of my wonderful, beautiful, glorious love.

It takes forever for reality to re-form: starting with the prickle of cooling sweat down my exposed back and spreading into drowsy awareness of the stickiness against my gut. I should be thoroughly uncomfortable.

I'm not. I feel - well, _fantastic_ sums it up as well as anything. And smug. Phenomenally, wonderfully, unimaginably smug.

I've been inside Trip Tucker. I've felt his arse engulf my cock; made him shriek my name at orgasm. Forget passing out of the Academy top of my class. Or being posted to the finest, fastest ship in the fleet's senior staff. _That_ is an achievement to be proud of.

"Y' okay there, darlin'?" His voice is thick and slurry, a caress all of its own, and he's still clutching me, hands absently moving over my back and flank. I'm completely embedded in him, my weight pressing down onto his chest, and that's got to be uncomfortable even if he's too sweet to complain. "Take it easy comin' out, okay?"

Ow!

It doesn't hurt, exactly. It's more of a friction burn that sizzles out through my balls and up into my belly, like a static shock. Trip's slack features tighten momentarily, then relax into that amazing, easy smile when he draws me up to lie nose-to-nose on the pillow. "That good for you, Malcolm?"

He has to ask? Well, it gives me an opening and, knowing Trip, that's exactly what he intended. It's rather worrying to think he understands me so well.

"Bloody marvellous. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Nope. Jus' don't freak out if I'm walkin' a little funny in the morning okay?" He's a petter, is Trip. Can't stop running his big, strong hands over me in the afterglow, and though I've never been much of a cuddler I'll make an exception for him.

I've always been a worrier, mind. "Are you _very_ sore?"

We're so close I can feel the effect of his buttocks clenching all through his body; and that's without the hiss that whistles between his teeth. "Kinda," he admits, knowing full well I can spot a fib at a light year's range - especially from an inexpert liar like him. "You're big in _all_ the right places and it's been a while since I had a guy balls-deep. I'm a little tender - no, don't blame yourself, it's always gonna burn however well you're prepared. Am I making you nervous?"

"No." I've always rather enjoyed a bit of pain amid my pleasure, and I trust him. He'll make it good for me. "You promise - next time we've a day off?"

"If you're sure."

More than ever I'm sure. But his eyelids are dipping and he's wriggling his bum down into the mattress, more asleep than awake, and I'm so bloody smug that I've reduced him to this state! 

"Oh, I'm sure," I whisper, sealing the pledge with a tender kiss that he snuffles into, his arms flopping limply over my back. He's often quite irritatingly perky after sex, so if being fucked knocks him out this thoroughly I can see myself doing it again.

And again. And again. 

Isn't that a pleasant thought to fall asleep on!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about time Malcolm got what he really wants

No uniform, he said. Dozy bastard. I'm tempted to amble down to his room in my birthday suit.

Knowing my luck the Captain would be visiting his First Officer in the cabin opposite. And stop trying to finger-comb your hair, man! You'll have it standing on end in no time!

I'm nervous. And I could kick myself. I'm the one who's been pushing for this, after all.

We have a day off tomorrow, our first in a month. Which means...

My cock's trying to get to full attention, which in these jeans is a complete non-starter. My balls feel full and achy. I'm going to be fucked tonight. Made love to. Cherished. Whatever that sentimental Southern soft-arse wants to call it, makes no difference. I'm going to have Trip Tucker's dick shoved up my back passage, and I could come on the spot just from thinking about it.

"Evening Loo-tenant." He drags the title out to tease, then has the gall to laugh when I take a mock-swing for him. Aqua eyes rake my casual attire, full, pliable lips lifting into a pleased smile. "Lookin' good."

"You certainly are, Commaander." Two can play at that game. I've never found _flirting_ this natural, but then I've never thought the effort really worthwhile before. "Something smells good."

"Chicken in mushroom sauce with mashed potatoes, then triple chocolate brownies for dessert." He's as proud as a small boy presenting his homework to a doting parent; there are some of my favourite foods in there, and I don't want to imagine what he had to promise Chef to procure them. He's got the lights dimmed to a more romantic setting, greenery and a proper tablecloth on his desk and something classical - Bach, I suspect - humming in the background. If I was looking for something quick and dirty...

That's not Trip's way. He is (as he protests at every opportunity) a gentleman. 

I've never been wined and dined. When he takes my hand and fusses over getting me seated with a cloth napkin in my lap, I realise I rather like it. Even if it does delay the scratching of a certain itch.

We make small-talk while we eat - something else I've never been much cop at with anyone else, up to and including close relatives. He makes a point of serving my sauce, brushing his fingers against my knuckles as he pours, leaning close enough for me to notice he's wearing that cologne. My southerly brain, again, processes faster than its supposedly superior northern colleague; I can feel the ticklish sensation inch up out of the base and it distracts me so much I nearly miss my mouth. 

Not much longer. Oh God, he's licking his lips!

He says I do that all the time; on the bridge; in staff meetings; watching the screen on movie night. Says it's why he walks around with a permanent semi. Sweet-talker.

On the subject of sweet... I like a good, sticky chocolate brownie as much as the next chocoholic ensign, but do I really have to chew through one now? My drawers are already uncomfortably tight, and if he keeps on peeking under golden eyelashes, giving me those sly, _significant_ smiles of his, they'll trigger every fire alarm on board before I can get 'em off.

"If you're having second thoughts, Malcolm I won't be offended."

_What?_

He obviously realises I'm flummoxed because he charges on like a runaway rhino. "You keep fidgeting. You're distracted, and that's not my Malcolm. It's a big step, lettin' another guy... _you_ know. If you're not ready, just say the word. I've got plenty of other ideas for keepin' us occupied."

I'm not the best tactical officer in Starfleet for nothing. It takes a millisecond to assess my strategic options, and to select the most effective. I'm just as speedy in overturning my chair and grabbing my unsuspecting beloved out of his, our midriffs crushed together hard enough for him to identify just what's been making me squirm like an eel in the pot for the last half-hour. 

His eyes come out on stalks. "You carrying a rifle around off-duty, or are you just happy t' be here?"

I get up onto tiptoes and press his shoulders down to give him a silent answer. Two layers of well-worn denim flex between our groins, and thank heaven I'm not the only one who moans when our substantial appendages butt heads.

It's as if the whole day's anticipation erupts out of me. I'm clawing him, ravaging his willing mouth, tongue thrusting as our teeth clash. Too many clothes, need to feel his skin, want him so much, want him right now... the mantra chases through my head, thoughts getting jumbled, his hands are so warm on my stomach, why's he wasting time with my shirt, it's my pants I need them inside, don't want to come before he's even touched me!

"Malcolm, oh yeah darlin', need you so bad." The words vibrate through me, mumbled as they are against my tenderised lips. He's writhing with me, the world tilting like a boat's deck in a storm as we stumble toward the nearest vertical surface, no time to hit the horizontal, bodies in command and to hell with commonsense. Everything's blurring; only the clench of my balls is sharp, and oh God I'm coming, my body molten, flowing into his while he climaxes against and around me. Somebody's sobbing, howling his name, and as everything fades into deep velvet black, I can't help but wonder - was that really me?

"Sonofabitch." We're slumped in the corner by the time I realise that yes, it probably was. A tangle of floppy arms and jellified legs, all sweat and sticky, smelly male sex. Strange how I lose my obsessive hand-washer tendencies when Trip snogs me completely senseless. "That wasn't part 'f the plan, Mister Reed."

"You're the one who says I should _wing it_ sometimes." Still, it's touching that he's put so much thought into my seduction - unlike the first time, when his kiss came right out of the blue. He grins.

I can't stop myself tracing the upturn of those luscious lips, and he licks around my fingertip. Never knew I was sensitive there, but it seems I'm just a bipedal erogenous zone around Trip.

"I'm kinda glad it happened, though."

He constantly surprises me. "Oh?"

"I've been like a bitch on heat all day just thinking about comin' inside you." He's mumbling, drawl thick as treacle, and there's as much latent arousal as recent satisfaction behind them. "Jesus, Malcolm! Talkin' about old-time combustion engines Kelly said they needed lube... then Fisher said, _have a good evening, Commander_ when I got off the turbolift and bam! I got so hard, so fast, I couldn't move. Both times. You got any idea how embarrassing that can be?"

Actually yes, but I'm not going to admit my little moment with the torpedo and its _big end_ this morning. Mueller kept shooting me funny looks for the rest of his shift, and I don't blame him. I don't usually bolt into my office mid-conversation without so much as a _by-your-leave_.

"What I'm sayin' is..."

My finger returns to his lips. They're slightly puffy from our recent tonsil-tennis and the minimal change in texture is intriguing. "I know, love. I needed to blow some steam too, or it'd all have been over in ten seconds."

I've cultivated a mask over the years. Few people have ever got close enough to read what I hide behind it. A one-eyed Vulcan on the other side of the quadrant can usually read Commander Tucker's face like the sayings of Surak, and now - he's relieved, the silly sod.

"We're gonna take this nice and slow now, Malcolm." His movements and tone match the promise; he stands with the languid grace of a stretching cat, guiding me to the bed with his eyes alone. "I'm gonna touch you everywhere tonight, but you've got to trust me."

"I do." I've never meant anything more, and he must sense it. That smile should crunch the average human jaw.

"And I want you to promise; if I do anything that freaks you, or even makes you nervous, you'll tell me. If it's not good for the both of us, it's not worth doin', understood?"

"Aye, Sir." Even flat on my back I can still pull off a mean salute. Not just with my hand, either; my penis is jumping like an overexcited toddler at the funfair and Trip's going cross-eyed looking from it to my face and back. It means he's unprepared when I throw up an arm and yank him down, his full weight crushing a little squeak out of my chest. 

He wants to take care of me. I just want to be taken. And I have the upper hand, because when I lick the side of his neck he starts to tremble and I know he'll give me anything I ask.

So I do. "Take me."

In a trice his fingers are working around my hole. The lube's open - it smells of pineapple as well, the soppy bastard - and he's working it, chill and slippery, around the tight halo. Come on, damn you, we've been this far before!

And every time it astounds me. That a touch in _there_ can send me into orbit without a warp engine! I'm speaking in tongues by the time he's satisfied, splaying out those broad, blunt digits nice and wide. That chuckle of his is the deadliest weapon we have aboard, too.

"C'mon darlin', this'll be the easiest for your first time," he grunts, manoeuvring me as if I'm made of rubber onto my knees, hands gripped around the pillow. For the first time I can feel fear crawling, slimy and cold, into each muscle. 

I can hear him moving; feel the mattress give beneath his weight. But I can't see the tender smile of reassurance while I squat with my bum in the air, my spinning head too heavy to lift and turn. "Trip, I don't..."

"Sssh, I'm here." Lips brush my nape and the panic dissipates; it didn't take him long to realise what a touch there does to me, either. One hand's still working into my cleft, the other kneading my buttocks while he kisses his way down my spine, ticklish sizzles of sensation swirling out wherever those wonderful lips land. Yes, I'm vulnerable; exposed as I've never been before. The odd thing is - I'm loving it.

"Malcolm." He says my name, I think, for the sheer thrill of knowing he can. One hand's on my hip, the stretched fingers massaging; the other I can't - oh.

He's holding himself. Guiding his enormous, oil-slicked dick to nudge my arsehole; not pressing, just letting me feel it, broad and solid against the little entrance. I suppose I should be fighting panic now, with that whopping great missile about to fire into my rectum, but if it's there the fear's lost under a surge of lust that turns the room blood-red. I push back against him; feel the softened ring of muscle flex. He's murmuring against my neck, damp words of love and encouragement. The barrier trembles again... and breaks.

"Fuck!"

The very adult obscenity comes out in the squeak of a pubescent boy. My eyes are stinging, but the prickle of pain there is nothing to the cleaving of my arse by a giant axe. I feel like I'm being split in two, can't breathe, can't see, and Christ, it's amazing!

"Easy darlin', just relax now." Kisses flutter against my cheek; a hand rubs soothing circles at the small of my back and thank the Lord he's holding still, that great thick staff forcing out my walls. "Easy, just breathe, it's okay, easy there."

"'m not a - seaside donkey." Though the words are ground between clenched teeth, his stillness is having a cooling effect up my abused arsehole. I take his advice all the same and expel a long, slow breath, the strange sense of fullness overriding the burn of initial penetration. He chuckles; the vibrations run through his chest into my back and via his cock straight into my bowels. 

"Nah, more 'f a thoroughbred," he growls. When I laugh he rocks, moving in a little deeper, and bloody hell that feels good!

Pleasure ripples out in waves; I'm down on my elbows now, his upper body laid over my back, his mouth attached to the sensitive spot where neck and shoulder join. Heat radiates from both contact points; he's got a firm grip of my hips and his are moving, circling, gently increasing the pressure that's stretching me. It doesn't hurt at all.

There's a glorious satisfaction blooming out through me; sweet curls of pleasure working their way from his cock and that busy, suckling mouth, but there's something missing, something that settles, deep and aching, at the base of my erection. "My cock," I moan, even while I'm forcing myself back onto his, feeling the thickness, the velvet friction running up my arse. "Hurts - hurts so much. Please, Trip, please..."

Bliss. A slick hand grasps my dick and the circuit's complete, pleasure looping from his buried in my back passage, via the mouth still gnawing my shoulder, down into mine. Stars burst at the back of my eyes; lightning rips up my spine. _That's_ what your prostate's for, Lieutenant.

Every thrust is hitting the mark now; push-pull of that lovely length inside, pull-push around my cock, head's exploding, fingers and toes curled against the rush. His teeth cut into my shoulder, and the tiny shot of pain is all it takes.

The climax sweeps me like a tsunami; I can't fight, don't want to fight, just want to spin through this wonderful whirl forever, feeling him pulse, his seed spurting up my convulsing passage to flood my bowels, the pressure point at my neck released as he throw up his head and yells my name, his weight shuddering, sweaty skin sliding against my back. I'm falling, falling forever, and as long as he's with me I don't care. 

I never knew anything could feel like this


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expect the unexpected - Trip's discovering that should be Rule One of loving Malcolm Reed

I never thought it'd be like this. Not with Malcolm. I mean, I love the guy, but he's just so damn _controlled_.

I never dreamed - even though he asked me to fuck him - that he'd stick his pretty ass in the air and let me rut him like a wild stag, then collapse in a puddle of his own cold come and thank me for it. I know he's living proof of the old saying, that still waters really do run deep, but holy crap! That he'd be so wild - so open to this whole guy-on-guy thing... nobody who's seen Lieutenant Reed, stiff-upper-lipped British officer, on the bridge would think he'd be such a goddamn firecracker in the sack.

I'd be ashamed of myself if I had the energy left. I'm the last person who should under-estimate Malcolm Reed. I should've known once he took the step into this relationship, he'd be ready to go striding out ahead with it. He'll consider his options; weigh the risks and rewards; then jump in, both feet first. He's that kind of guy. Thorough.

My spent cock twitches. I'll never watch him strip down a phase pistol for repair the same way again. That total _focus_ of his is mighty erotic when you think about it the right way.

But what beats the sex by light years is the feeling I get when he snuggles back into my hold making that cute humming sound that's half a purr, half a sigh. The sex is something else, but even so, it only registers as a bonus.

He trusts me, and that's not something Malcolm does easily. Even better, he trusts himself with me. He laughs with me, fights with me, cuts off the internal self-censor that operates when he talks to anyone else - even Travis, even Hoshi, and I know how much he cares for the two of them. With me, he just _is_. No holding back, no worrying what I'm going to think of him.

Looking back, I was a jerk not to realise what that meant a long time ago.

He loves me. He's been waiting for me to see sense all along. And when I did, he had the courage - the passion - to leap right in. Heart on sleeve. I always thought that was my specialty.

He murmurs in his sleep; there's a trace of that sexy smirk pulling at his mouth even now. Was that my name?

I can't stop myself pulling him closer, 'til his perfect body's tucked right into the cradle of mine. Yes, there's a whole lot more to _us_ than sex, but it's one hell of an extra to have. I wonder how he'll feel about spending a whole day in bed tomorrow?


End file.
